Cold was the ground
by MyLadyDay
Summary: The ones left behind suffer the most.


The silence was weighing on him. Sitting on the unmade bed, he glanced around the room once again and once again, he found it empty. Each glance that found nothing added to the weight on his chest. His hands, his strong hands that supported so many were shaking as if he were a child. Trying to steady them, he lowered his head into the open palms. It was no good, though, his whole body, no, his being was shaking. Shivering under the pressure bubbling in his throat. It was a gamble at this point, really. Would the sob building in his chest escape or would he be able to keep it under wraps? His fingers slipped into his hair, nails digging into skin as a feeble attempt to dull the ache. The burning trails on his scalp were meant to distract him. But they wouldn't, would they? He lifted his head again, but it was no longer the proud demeanor of a leader. His gaze, blank and unfocused this time, swept across the room once more. His eyes widened as they landed on a pair of black boots by the door. They were there the whole time, he knew, they were left there like countless times before. Unprepared for the wave of images invoked by the sight, he flinched as the first memory of a bright grin invaded his mind. Beaming grin, roaring laughter followed by a loving smile. A shuddering breath and a quiet moan. A call of his name; quiet and affectionate.

His eyes stung as he tried keeping the tears away, but the pressure was building fast. Averting his tired eyes from the boots, the tears became more persistent. His surroundings were nowhere near as empty as he had first imagined. The discarded shirt lying on the back of his chair, the book left opened next to the bed, the lighter standing proudly on the top shelf; each item pulled at his heart and piled what felt like bricks onto his already sagged shoulders. The weight seemed to pull him back and he let himself fall on the bed, his arms automatically stretching at his sides. Rather than the room, the emptiness spread through him instead, eating at his insides. His chest felt empty, but heavy at the same time. Every breath was a struggle and he had to ask himself if it was really worth it. Was a life as empty as the room around him really worth it?

Not really bothering with ridding himself of such thoughts, he found himself enveloped with an all too familiar scent. Whether it was really there or if it was all in his head, a safe haven for his troubled mind, he didn't know nor care. It was the safe haven that finally pushed him over the edge. Hot tears spilled out, gliding over his cheeks and he did nothing to stop them. His hands clutched at the soft sheets as he tried to stop the violent shudders that came with the sobs. The ceiling was a blurry mess through the tears, but he couldn't see it. He saw nothing beyond the smiling face that danced before his eyes. The weight on his chest was growing heavier, the emptiness still vacant as the tears left him. In a moment of maddening despair, he screamed. The sound was tearing his throat as it left him, the burn only intensifying as he wailed again and again. His eyes were forced shut in a feeble attempt to block the happy memories he was seeing. They burned his eyes, his insides, his heart like acid. They were salt rubbed into the wound that was his whole being and he could do nothing to stop them.

His hands wrapped around him, wrapping him into the soft sheet that served as a poor substitute for what was wrenched from him. The sheet felt cold on his skin, giving him anything but the comfort he so desperately desired. The realization that the comfort would never come shook his body again and he curled in on himself. Thinking of how weak he had become made his skin crawl; there were others depending on him, a great many of them in fact, but he would remain an empty shell of a man until the day he dies. The fire that kept him going was gone in the blink of an eye, no matter how hard he tried, he would never get it back and it sickened him. It sickened him that there were people depending on his strength and he wouldn't be able to provide it, unable to even protect what was dearest to him.

Forcefully stopping his sobs, he welcomed the silence as it would be a constant part of his life. His throat burned, scratched raw by the screaming, but he ignored it. He ignored the pulsing of the damaged flesh because it was the only thing keeping him afloat in the vast ocean of memories that threatened to drown him. He couldn't let himself drown in pity and regret, no matter how appealing the option appeared to be. His eyes remained closed for fear he might see images of his lost happiness if he opened them. It was easier to lie there, wrapped in nothing but a thin sheet and a pain that seemed to crush, stab and cut him at the same time than face the ones that were left behind. His chest felt like it might explode at the realization that it all rested on his shoulders that were in no way capable of carrying more weight than they already did.

He stilled completely and unwrapped the soaked sheet from his body. It should have been impossible to cry as many tears as he had, he thought, but he couldn't help but find it befitting. The tears had stopped, but his eyes were left scratchy, dry and probably obviously red. He couldn't find it in himself to care, knowing everyone had heard his cries. The room around him seemed colder by the second, chilling him to the bone as he lifted himself from the bed that was once a happy place, but now looked too big and empty. His fingers reached into the pocket of his pants on instinct, searching for treasure he hid there in the midst of the commotion. It seemed like a thousand years ago, before reality crashed into him like a wave almost knocking him off his feet.

He twirled the red shiny bead in his hand, saddened by how lonely it felt without the rest of them; hanging around _his _neck. The burning of his eye alerted him of the last tear he would shed, he promised himself, at least, and he wiped it away. His chest and his eyes throbbed as he slipped his impassive mask on, returning his red treasure into the pocket where it would remain. Trying his hardest to ignore the cold grip on his heart, Marco started for the door. He was left behind, alone and cold, but he had to make due. He had a pirate to thank and a life without Ace to live.

If it could even be called living.

**This is pretty much my first angst, but I guess I was in the right mood today. Hope you liked it. And I'm sorry XD**


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